


No Promises

by Zanzibarxx



Category: Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game)
Genre: @CDPR let us hug our bf johnny cowards, and v is just stubborn like that, but johnny is an asshole, everyone wants to hug their bf johnny, honestly just wanted to be sad so i wrote an angsty drabble of sorts, johnny and v could get along if they tried, probably a oneshot because i have commitment issues, welcome to silverhand hell folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:55:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28560177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zanzibarxx/pseuds/Zanzibarxx
Summary: If V could have it, she'd work herself into the grave. Johnny would let her do it...if he didn't give one damn for this stubborn bitch.
Relationships: Johnny Silverhand/Female V
Comments: 1
Kudos: 74





	No Promises

**Author's Note:**

> Whipped this up in an hour or so because I hAvE fEeLiNgS that need to be squashed, but I refuse to exit Silverhand hell. So welcome to my own corner of this hell. 
> 
> Also spoiler alert, this has subtle spoilers. You've been spoiler warned.

He remembers death so vividly.

Maybe it’s because he’s played his own death on replay, like an addict, during that agonizing tenure in Mikoshi. Maybe it’s because he’s played V’s death over and over until his gut feels twisted by the crash of dismay that surges through her bloodstream like untamed electricity, until his own heart feels ready to burst like hers did, throbbing against the bony confinements of her ribcage before Dex unceremoniously pulls the trigger.

He can’t tell if the unbridled rage and fear, blatant and loud to his senses, is from the memory of his own death or hers anymore. The lines are hazy and blurred – as time elapses and their memories begin to mesh, he isn’t sure it matters anymore. Both of them, both memories of death, ripple with sheer agony through his consciousness. The fleeting moment the bullet from Dex’s revolver ripples through her cranium. The cogent surge of electricity through his skull, ripping his soul from his mortal body.

He hates death – and he hates that somehow he’s cheated it, because perhaps remaining dead is easier. But now he’s lodged in some bold, irresponsible woman’s brain, watching her maul through her second death as the relic he’s installed into slowly gnaws her lifeform away.

At first, he saw it as a means to an end. The selfish bastard within him has been gifted a second chance by the gods – or, by those corporate assholes, Arasaka. Either way, he knew not to look a gift horse in the mouth. She was dying, the relic was seizing the reign of her flesh. The ends would justify the means.

But then, he realized that he was watching his third death unfold. This one deliberate. This one tainted with the hope that she would uncover a way to reverse the tumultuous clusterfuck she’s gotten herself into. Some days better than others, but the ticking bomb in V’s brain always making itself prominent and known. She was dying, living on borrowed time – each day more precious and fragile than the last. And somewhere, along the way, he realized that watching her traverse each day, coughing blood up and experiencing headaches that rendered her immobile, hurt him all the same as the last two deaths.

Time is an excruciating bitch.

V chases leads like a stray dog chases garbage trucks in vain. In the gaps that unhinge between leads, waiting for intel and waiting for the dots to connect, V thrusts herself into random gigs. She spends most days and evenings sneaking around compounds and being pursued by bullets. At night, she finds somewhere quiet to mend her wounds, usually some slum restaurant or the corner of a grimy alley. For some reason, V refuses to go home most days. Once she’s fed and taken a pause, she hops back into the fray.

The eddies don’t matter. It’s the way that each line of work leaves her name on people’s lips that gives her a dose of adrenaline. She’s becoming a passing whisper amongst fixers and people in desperate need of a merc. But she’s only a fly on the wall of the limelight. Mercs spend months and years clawing their way to the top of Night City’s ranks. And she? V had a few weeks, months, at best. She had traction, but traction only meant so much in this vast, bustling dumpster fire of a city.

Ironically, she pretends to ignore the dwindling time on her clock, yet her earnest desire to pursue every line of work and to fill the voids into trying to find a way out of her curse proves she’s wildly aware of what little she has left to consume. She knows this might not pan out. That this small vessel she inhabits will watch her rot before long, and what will remain of V?

Blaze of glory or a whimper?

He knows she contemplates this every day. It’s like a festering wound in her mind – begging for her to do anything in her power to create some tangible form of a legacy. Her urgency burns in his chest, too, and he can’t help but wistfully harbor pity for the dying woman. She fights like a cornered animal in an attempt to solidify a legacy, to emblazon her name onto Night City’s exclusive ledger. And the depleting time only sends her into a desperate panic, forcing her hand in the matter to delve deeper than her body and mind can sustain.

There’s a small ounce of him that desires to tell her to fucking take a break. She’s already covered her stomach with home-done stitches, with the breathless promise to have Vik look at it when she has the time to return to Watson, and she’s limping from a superficial bullet wound to her thigh. Johnny can’t help but inwardly scoff her miserable state – but he knows better than to harp on the woman. She wouldn’t accept his vitriol. She’s honed in on her blaze of glory – only death could stop her now. And she was intent on allowing that sole factor to be the singular thing to cease her.

The neon-lit streets of Japantown are still a commotion at this bleak hour, packed with pedestrians, drunk, whacked out on drugs or otherwise. The sun has long set on Night City but, true to its name, Night City never slumbers. V strides down the sidewalk with a hitch in her step, hand clutched over the bleeding stitches on her stomach. Another job, another eddy. It had been messy, that’s for sure, but that didn’t hinder V from going in and accomplishing what she’d been asked. Now she walks down the street with little regard for her deteriorating state, pondering if she should stop at a food booth to grab a bite and to inspect her wounds.

She takes a turn on Sagan Street when it happens. A sudden surge of static pulsates in her mind, like an outlet short-circuiting and spitting sparks into her neural pathways. A gasp traps itself in her throat as she lurches forward, fingers closing around the cool metal of a lamppost. Her vision is hazy, and not a clear thought passes through her mind as she buckles into the pain. A convulsion shakes her to the core, white knuckles gripping down on the cement base of the lamppost as her knees give way. Before long, gravity overtakes her, and she descends to the pavement.

“Fuck,” she curses, her voice a desperate hiss against her lips.

Maybe it’s seconds, or perhaps minutes before the light ekes back into her vision. She’s dizzy and every neuron seems alight with fire as she draws several sharp, edgy breaths from her lips. Everything burns. Everything fucking hurts.

He appears, materializing against the lamppost with a blank expression. She’s been stomaching these malfunctions since she woke up half-alive in Vik’s shop, and at this point, he isn’t sure if pity or honest remarks will drill into V’s brain. She’s already exhausted from her own precarious decisions, but the relic malfunctions are the tip of the iceburg that will sink her.

“You’re runnin’ yourself dry,” he remarks sharply, an accusation.

Her eyes jolt up to meet his, eyebrows furrowed as she shakes her head in response. “I gotta keep goin’. No use in wallowin’ in my self-pity.”

“Fuck, V, we both know you’re dyin’. But you’re pressin’ the fast forward button on this whole process by flingin’ yourself at every fucking bullet and stayin’ up for…what thirty-two hours now?”

“What does it matter? I’m speedin’ up the process for you to gain control of the meat suit,” she retorts, jaw clenching.

“Oh, for fucks’ sake, V.” Fingers furl into fists as he paces a few steps before his emotions erupt. The nerve of this woman really had him conjured into some treacherous beast. And, somewhere in the deep recesses of their brain, he couldn’t blame her. One of the first things he promised to do was kill her – a phenomenal first impression. He crouches down to her level, brown eyes inspecting her flaming blue ones.

“Where’s the lie, Johnny?” V challenges. Her voice is raspy and labored breaths break through every couple of words, but she still projects an air of vehemence and accusation. Her face, although contorted in pain, scowls at the projection before her. “Tell me, you wouldn’t just love for me to keel over dead right now.”

His hand shoots forward with swift reflexes, clutching her chin so that her gaze is forced to retain his own. His own jaw clenches as he suppresses a wave of snarling remarks to the indignant woman. “Enough,” he orders.

Slowly, V sheds the layer of anger and diverts her gaze once more, surrendering. No use in furthering arguments with the beast in your head.

Ragged breaths fill the emptiness that exists between them. V rests her cheek against the coolness of the lamppost, eyelids fluttering shut as she takes the interlude in their argument to recompose. Johnny perches there, watching V battle through another ripple of the episode before her body seems to relent. Her breaths, though wheezing and forced, begin to subside into a normal rhythm. Satisfied she’s reached smoother waters in regards to her episode, Johnny rises to his feet.

He paces silently for a moment, teeth sinking into his tongue as he contemplates the next word to leave his mouth. He’d tell her to die already if the thought of those words didn’t cause his own gut to churn. His boots scuff as he comes to a halt, wheeling to face V. She doesn’t look up, her eyelids still hovering over her eyes as she manages her breathing. 

“We talked about bein’ honest. You don’t fucking trust me as is, so I won’t lie, yeah, I’m tired of bein’ your passenger. But I’m not a fuckin’ monster, V. I hate watchin’ you die and all of this,” he stops for a moment, motioning to her sorry state, “I feel it to an extent too. And I’ve already died once…twice if we count the bullet that tore through your sponge. So, I’m sorry for giving a flying fuck.”

A heavy silence, broken up only by the rumble of tires on the overpass above, drifts between the two. V, the pain ebbing and the episode now reaching an end, gently trails one hand up along the lamppost base to form a grip and hoist her trembling frame back into a standing position. She falters for a moment, nearly crashing back to the earth before Johnny reaches out and grabs one of her wrists. There’s a fleeting moment where her eyes flit from his hand back up to him, a grim expression of retort wanting to surface before V suppresses it and allows Johnny to assist her to her feet.

“So, you care?” V dryly remarks. Her words elicit a little roll eye and snort from him.

“If those terms fill your lil’ heart with content,” Johnny sighs.

A weak smile twists itself at the corners of V’s lips. “I am so cordially honored that Johnny Silverhand gives one damn about me.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he retorts.

Steadying herself, V retracts her stabilizing hands from Johnny’s arms and gently straightens her back. She sways for a second before releasing a satisfied sigh that she’s gathered her control. Johnny flicks an eyebrow in her direction, V only replying with a reassuring nod.

“Okay,” V resigns, a little sigh rippling through her chest. She coughs, clearing her throat and wincing. “Home…I’ll go home.”

“And sleep.”

“And sleep,” she echoes.

A lofty promise. It was the best the two could settle on.


End file.
